


Creation

by ariel2me



Series: Stannis/Asha AUs [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stannis/Asha Regency Era AU. In which Asha is writing a book, and Stannis is her research material.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Talented Miss Greyjoy

He would make an excellent king for her book, Asha thought, as her eyes and mind took in the full measure of the man. A dour, suspicious king who kept his own counsel and trusted no one, she decided. The king of winter who defeated the knights of summer. His walk, bordering between an impatient stride and a purposeful gait - she would have to memorize it, commit it to memory until she could put the words on paper.

“Has Mrs Greyjoy settled in for the night?” He asked her, his eyes staring at the clock in the study, and not at her.

“She has, thank you. We’re very grateful to you for giving us shelter for the night. Our carriage could not have gone much further in this snowstorm.”

“It is very foolish of you to travel in such weather,”Stannis said, his tone disapproving.

“My mother insisted,” Asha replied. Her mother could never stay long at their London home. The memory of her two dead sons still lingered there. Alannys Greyjoy preferred to stay at her brother’s country residence, far from her husband, far from the man she blamed for her sons’ deaths.  

No, Asha decided, she would not think of her mother. Or her father. Not tonight. She turned her mind towards the man currently in the room with her. What would her uncle Rodrik make of this man? Asha wondered.

“I have met a singular creature, unlike anyone you have ever met, or anything you have ever read in your vast collection of books, uncle,” she envisioned telling Rodrik Harlaw.

But perhaps Stannis Baratheon was not so singular after all. Perhaps it only seemed that way at the moment because he was a mystery she had yet to solve. She was going to write about him, she had resolved months ago, probing and investigating every aspect of his character in the guise of a fictional character in her novel, as she had done before with others. There was something exhilarating about the process; the feeling was indescribable, a precious treasure she could never duplicate with other activities.

Of course there was the inevitable crash and the steep come-down at the end, once she had solved the mystery and found the key to who and what the person truly was, the secret to their being. It all ended up seeming a bit disappointing, and if she was truly honest with herself, rather grubby, in fact. A puzzle solved could not help but lost its luster in many ways. But Asha was not fond of indulging in pointless regrets or entertaining endless misgivings about the past. The next step forward; that was always her prime consideration.

Her eyes took in the mountain of papers and letters on Stannis’ writing table. It seemed a bit much for a landed gentry, Asha thought. He must have an estate agent who took care of most of the actual work that needed to be done. How often had her father spoken scornfully about these landlords from old families who had no notion of profit and money at all, who were at the mercy of their estate agents and their solicitors. Her father had also spoken gleefully about how easy it was to swindle these soft men who were born to titles, land and properties, who never had to work for anything in their life.

Stannis Baratheon did not seem like a man who could be easily swindled, by Balon Greyjoy or by anyone else, Asha thought.

Stannis noticed her gaze, and cleared his throat pointedly. “Is there anything else, Miss Greyjoy?” He wanted to be left alone, that much was clear.

“No,” Asha replied, smiling. “I only came down to say thank you.”

He nodded and turned his attention back to the letter he was reading, ignoring her as if she was already out of the room. Asha looked around, desperate to continue the conversation. There might not be another chance for them to be alone later, for her to observe him uninterrupted. There was a daughter in the house, Asha knew, but no wife. Stannis was a widower. A younger brother also lived there, Asha had learned. Her eyes spotted a book placed at the edge of a chair. _Salvation!_ She picked up the book and read the title.

_Emma._

A sound escaped her throat. _“Oh.”_

There was no reaction from the other occupant of the room. Stannis still had his head down, concentrating on the letter.

“You do not seem the type to read Miss Austen,” Asha said.

There was still no reply from Stannis.

“I know she is quite fashionable at the moment. The Prince Regent himself is a devoted reader, it is said,” Asha continued, refusing to give up and surrender.

The head came up swiftly, with one eyebrow raised, the pinched lips turning down in a frown, the dark blue eyes staring daggers at Asha.

“I do not read for fashion, Miss Greyjoy.”

“But you _do_ read Miss Austen, do you not?” Asha asked, holding out the book in her hand.

“The book belongs to my younger brother.”

“Ah. That is less unexpected,” Asha replied with a smile, arranging her expression so that she looked as if she was relieved that everything made more sense now.

Stannis took the bait, as Asha hoped he would. “Why is that less unexpected?” He asked, frowning. “I _do_ know how to read, Miss Greyjoy, just like my brother. I am not an illiterate.” He was grinding his teeth, the sound clearly audible from across the room where Asha was standing. Her mind was filled with the words she could use to describe that sound, the phrases she would write to bring to life the way his jaw was steadily working, to show her readers with just a few words his countenance when he was displeased.

Asha made conciliatory noises. “I’m sure you do. I only meant that Miss Austen’s work does not seem –“

Stannis interrupted. “Miss Austen is a sharp observer of human nature, and a careful cataloguer of their follies. The ending of her books, however, leaves much to be desired.”

“The ending? So you do not approve of Emma Woodhouse marrying Mr Knightley? Or Elizabeth Bennet finally finding happiness with Mr Darcy?”

“Life does not end with a happy wedding,” Stannis replied curtly.

“I’m sure Miss Austen is aware of that. But the book has to end at some point,” Asha pointed out. “It can hardly go on forever.”

“Then why end with a wedding? Why not childbirth, or death?” Stannis asked, his voice rising, his face flushed. He looked down quickly, as if he regretted saying even that much.

“The readers are free to continue the story in their own mind. For example, I am certain that Emma will soon grow tired of her husband and his determination to continually improve her character,” Asha said. “I predict six months at the most of domestic bliss for Mr and Mrs Knightley.”

“Are you mocking me, Miss Greyjoy?"

“Heavens, no. I agree with you. Miss Austen’s ending is the worst feature of her work.”

“Is that literary criticism, or the words of a jealous rival?” Stannis asked, gazing at her shrewdly.

Asha was stunned. _How did he know?_

She laughed to conceal her surprise. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. My brother Theon is the published author in my family.”

He was still staring at her, his eyes boring deep into hers, challenging, questioning. “I do not think so. I have met your brother and spoken to him on a few occasions. Yara is _not_ his creation,” he said emphatically. “You are a liar, Miss Greyjoy. You and your brother both,” he said angrily.

Her surprise that he had actually read her novel was surpassed only by her puzzlement that he seemed to take the deception so personally. What business was it of his anyway? He had no right to judge her, no right at all.

“Did you think a novel of sea-faring adventure would be greeted with better reception and more sales if it were written by a man?” He asked, his tone scornful.

“Of course it would,” Asha replied. “Is there really any doubt about that? Women are expected to write stories about the domestic sphere, not the world at large. Matrimonial adventures, not sea-faring adventures, and certainly not sea-faring adventures of a female character.”

“So you admit it! You lied for money.”

It was Asha’s turn to sound scornful. “My father has more money than you and your brothers combined. I do not write for money.”

“Why, then? Why not use your own name?”

Because of a brother who needed a purpose in life so he would not be lost to his family, and to himself. Because the book - the printed, published item sold in stores - was never the point for Asha. The process was the point; the gathering of material, the careful choosing of not just words but also _people_ , the real living, breathing people who would form the basis of her characters. There was also the constant but entertaining struggle to come up with ingenious ways to hide her inspirations (libel suit was a concern, certainly). And most of all, the feeling of her hand writing down each and every word, fully in control of the world she had created, free to arrange things however she chose, thwarted by nothing and no one.

How could this man even begin to understand any of that? This man who by mere accident of birth was already in control of his world, every day of his life.

Perhaps it would be better to make him a defenseless, powerless peasant in her next book, Asha thought.

Better still, Stannis should be a woman in the book, Asha mused. A woman with great ability thwarted by the rules of society, her worth unrecognized, her ambition curtailed, her dreams curdled into bitterness.

“Is that what you secretly wish to do, captaining a ship and traveling the world?” Stannis asked, even though she had not yet replied to his previous question.

She knew what he was asking. _Is Yara yourself?_ _Are you Yara?_

“No. It’s only a story,” she lied. “I am a good writer,” she said truthfully. Stannis would be her greatest creation yet.

 


	2. Bonnie Prince Stanny

_*************************************************************************************_

_“The punishment for a smuggler –“_

_“I am no smuggler!”_

_“What are you, then? A pirate? Well, so be it. If you prefer to lose your head instead of your fingers ...“_

_“I am a trader, and my ship is a trading ship.”_

_“A trader with a ship called Black Wind that did everything in its power to escape detection? Do you take me for a fool?”_

_“Nay, not a fool. A stubborn fool.”_

_“How dare you?!”_

_*************************************************************************************_

Asha paused, considering her next sentence. Were she writing a certain kind of story, the man and the woman would be violently undressing each other in their head by now, her bosom heaving at the thought of his strong, manly arms encircling her waist. Asha scoffed. _Her_ Yara was much more likely to be concealing a dagger between her breasts than to be sufficiently overcome by anyone’s manly gaze to induce any bosom-heaving. Yara would be waiting for the opportunity to stick her blade into this so-called ‘king.’

Asha decided to make him a king after all. Not a peasant, or a woman. Much more interesting to write about his downfall from the ranks of the high and mighty to the lowest of the low.

What name would she give him? She could not possibly use his real name. Some men might find that amusing, perhaps even flattering, but Stannis Baratheon was resolutely _not_ such a man; of that Asha was certain.

 _Stanley_? Too obvious, Asha decided. And what sort of a self-respecting king in a sea-faring adventure would be called Stanley anyway? His Majesty King Stanley, Stanny to his close confidantes. Perhaps he was even called Bonnie Prince Stanny in his youth. Asha was suddenly seized by an image of Stannis Baratheon in his rompers, and she let out a sound halfway between a guffaw and a snort.

The knock on the door silenced her. Immediately, with hands steady from regular practice, Asha quickly pushed the papers she had been filling with rows after rows of words into a drawer.

“Come in,” she called out after all the papers had been safely hidden away, and the lock had been turned.

The maid curtsied. “There is a letter for Mrs Greyjoy, miss. And you did say that her letters must go to you in her absence,” the maid said.

“Thank you. That will be all,” Asha said firmly. Her mother was still at Ten Towers, uncle Rodrik’s country residence. She was about to add the letter to the growing collection of her mother’s correspondences to be sent on to Ten Towers when she noticed the Baratheon crest displayed on the envelope.

Surely … _no, it could not be_.

But why would he write to Asha’s mother, of all people? Asha had written Stannis an elaborate thank-you note expressing her gratitude, as well as her mother’s, for his kindness in allowing them to take shelter in his home during the snowstorm. A shorter note would have sufficed, in normal circumstances, but Asha thought a longer, more substantial note could perhaps induce him to hold regular correspondence with her, and she could endeavor to know more about his character in that way.    

Oh the things she was willing to do for her writing! 

There had been no reply from Stannis Baratheon. Not even a single line acknowledging her note. That by itself said something about his character, Asha had surmised. But now this letter with the Baratheon crest arrived …

Had her mother written to Stannis Baratheon too? Asha doubted it very much. Since the death of her two oldest sons, Alannys Greyjoy seldom bothered with the rituals and niceties of society. “Your father wants advancement, wants his family and his name to stand tall alongside the landed gentries, but what has that brought us, in the end? Heartbreak. Death. Only that.”

It had brought them a large house on the richest side of London, Balon Greyjoy would have said. Not to mention lords, ladies and landed gentries galore deep in debt to Mr Greyjoy, whose provenance was not strictly known and highly suspect, but _damn the man, he knows too much, and we’re in hock to him too deeply; so stiff upper lip everyone while we suffer him and his ghastly wife and children at our sumptuous dinners and our grand balls, all so that vulgar, vulgar man can pretend that he is a gentleman._   

Impatient with her own thoughts, Asha tore the envelope and extract the content. Her mother would not mind. Stannis Baratheon was nothing to her.

It was not a letter after all, but an invitation to a supper party from Lyanna, Lady Baratheon. A mention was made of the acquaintance between Mrs Greyjoy and her daughter Miss Greyjoy with “ _my husband’s younger brother Stannis._ ” Their presence at said supper party would be “ _joyfully anticipated_.”

Robert, Baron Baratheon must be deep in debt to her father; that was Asha’s first thought. Neither she nor her mother had ever been invited to Lord Baratheon’s home for any occasion before. What was his favorite vice? Gambling? Drinks? Women? Possibly all three, Asha suspected, recalling Lord Baratheon’s florid complexion, his straying and overly-touchy hands, and the devil-may-care glint in his eyes.

Asha had no intention of going to the supper party. And there was no point forwarding the invitation to her mother; Mrs Greyjoy would have even less interest in attending. It was best to make certain that her father did not catch sight of the invitation however. He would have insisted that Asha accept it. Mr Greyjoy was currently in the continent conducting his many business ventures and transactions, but his comings and goings were never predictable, and he was liable to suddenly return home without giving prior notice to his family.

Asha was unlocking her drawer when Theon suddenly came bounding in, not bothering with knocking or even calling out her name. “You are invited too, I see,” he said, pointing to the letter with the Baratheon crest Asha was still holding in her hand.

“Too? Have you received an invitation?”

Theon nodded, looking very pleased with himself. “Lord Baratheon mentioned it at the club. He said it’s too bad Father’s in Paris, but he’s sure you and I would enliven his supper party considerably.

“He must be deeper in debt to Father that I thought,” Asha said, raising an eyebrow. “In danger of losing his ancestral home, perhaps?”

“It’s not for that reason!” Theon exploded, his face reddening. “Why do you always think that, when we’re invited to anything?”

“I have been proven right time and time again, have I not?”

“I played cards with Lord Baratheon on a few occasions. He thought my conversation very witty and my card-playing skill considerable. He thought me good company, in fact.”

Oh her foolish, foolish, deluded brother! She could wring his neck sometimes, this needy, pitiful brother of hers.

“Theon, listen to me -“

“I do wish _he_ would not be at the supper party,” Theon grumbled.

“Who?”

“Lord Baratheon’s younger brother. The one who cornered me at Lord Darnley’s to ask rude questions about our novels.”

 _Our novels_. That was how Theon referred to them when it was only the two of them. _Our_ novels - Asha’s acts of creation published under his name. He wrote the synopses, chose the title, suggested changes here and there that she ignored unless they were inconsequential enough to the story that she could make them in good conscience to humor him.

“Well, I suppose we should be flattered that he has read them, and given them so much thought,” Asha said.

“Not if he’s giving them so much thought only in the service of finding faults,” Theon retorted.

Amusement and outrage battled for supremacy. Amusement had the upper hand for the time being. Asha laughed. “Tell me, what did Stannis Baratheon find so troubling and so deficient about my stories?”

“Not with the stories, particularly, but with the main character.”

“With _Yara_?”

“In all her adventures, Yara alone remains curiously untouched and unscathed. That is not believable, he said.”

Outrage threw a punch and dispensed with amusement quickly enough. “Well, he must not have read The Black Lagoon, if he thought Yara always escapes unscathed,” Asha said angrily. “She almost lost a leg in that story. And in The –

“I don’t think he meant physical injuries,” Theon interrupted.

“Then what _did_ he mean, precisely?”

Theon shrugged. “Who knows? You could ask him yourself, at the supper party.”

“He _will_ be there, definitely?”

“Yes, Lord Baratheon made a great point of saying so. I don’t know why.”

 


End file.
